The Sands of Time
by CyrusLestrange
Summary: In the perfectly wrong place at the perfectly wrong time, Ginny Weasley follows a crazed and desperate Dennis Creevey into the heart of the Department of Mysteries. In the perfectly wrong place, at the perfectly wrong time, a freak accident occurs... leading her to an entirely different time altogether...
1. Prologue

**The Sands of Time**

**Prologue**

"_Dennis_- wait!" Ginny hissed desperately, an unpleasant iciness stealing into her heart as she watched the short young man speed away from her down the black hallway.

Her hiss reverberated off the marble walls; multiplying rapidly like a pack of angry snakes calling out for the boy ahead of her. A chill ran up her spine.

"Dennis!" she tried again, a little louder.

This time her call echoed in a chorus of low, feminine voices. Dennis Creevey stopped. He turned, smiling at her eerily, his face shadowed in the dim orange torchlight. The hair on the back of Ginny's neck stood up.

"Ginny, we don't have much time," he whispered urgently, his fingers tracing the lines of the camera dangling from his neck. His eyes were wide- _crazed_, "I _have_ to show you- it could change everything- bring him back…"

He turned on his heel and started legging it down the black hallway again. Cursing under her breath, Ginny felt like she had no choice but to follow him. There was no place she wanted to be _less, _than in the Department of Mysteries, unbidden, at eleven o'clock at night… but she thought she would feel even more frightened if she turned back now, to spent the rest of the night thinking of him wandering around down there alone.

At least _she_ had _some_ idea of what to expect down there.

There was an uncomfortable foreboding in her chest- as if her heart were screaming a nails-on-the-chalkboard warning at her. It had started the moment Dennis had intercepted her in the lift, as she headed back to the lobby after bringing her father a late-dinner in his office.

Dennis was not the first person she would expect to run into at the Ministry. He was so new to the Daily Prophet that the most official things _he_ was assigned to cover, were the local pub's late night events and specials. But there he was, wearing his badge, with his brother's camera strapped firmly around his neck. He had glanced around edgily before bolting into the lift, and shutting the grate immediately behind him.

_"Ginny," he had panted, "You have to come with me."_

Five minutes later found her hurrying to keep up with his fervent footsteps; rushing down the corridor to the unmarked black door that sometimes haunted her dreams, even now. Their slapping feet created a ringing frenzy until they reached it at last. Dennis stopped short, hauling the door open, and pulled Ginny inside.

Where the corridor had been an amplifier of sound, the round room of doors was like a vacuum. Ginny felt like time had stopped moving in the sudden, _overwhelming_ silence that rose up all around them. That was, until the doors began to spin. Filled with dread for reasons she couldn't explain and unable to believe that she was standing here _again_, she looked over at Dennis. He was fumbling in his pocket, pulling out a piece of parchment filled with hastily scrawled notes. He was not right- not himself. He was possessed with some strange obsession.

He reminded her of Harry's wild determination, right here, in this room, _six years ago_ … on the night Sirius had died.

The doors were churning to a stop, and Dennis, turning the parchment sideways in his hands, pointed absently at the one in a 'seven o'clock' position relative to Ginny. Looking rapidly from door to paper, he charged forward and pushed it open. It obliged with a creak, and he disappeared behind it. Ginny's spine crawled at the strip of impossible darkness visible behind the door. She was afraid of this place. She thought suddenly of the veil that had captivated Harry so utterly.

The veil that had swallowed Sirius Black whole.

The clammy fear in her heart intensified, and _something_, that thing that always caused her to push ahead whenever she felt fear, moved her feet towards the darkness behind the door. She shut it behind her, and heard the doors slide rockily into motion again.

"Dennis?" she whispered.

Nothing.

A faint light was bobbing along the side of the room, far ahead of her. Knowing better than to head towards it blindly- like a moth into an electric currant- she cautiously took her wand out.

"Lumos," she breathed, feeling that strange sense of vacuum again- like her voice wouldn't be heard by someone standing inches away.

Her wand tip bloomed into a soft light, making the darkness around her blacker still by contrast. She walked slowly, holding her wand arm up to cast light on the walls she knew must be close to her. She was in a high-ceilinged room, she thought, judging by the sudden draft of cool and plentiful air that seemed to press down on her from above. There was a door to her left. It was the least ominous door she had seen in this place, made of rustic cherry-wood boards. Carved beautifully into the wood, was an inscription that read:

_Heed; for in this humble space_

_Lies a force so sovereign_

_It can create or destroy all men_

_With a single taste_

Ginny read this several times, feeling suddenly warm and bewitched by the loving touch of the hand-carved letters. It made her think of the sign her father had carved for her own door at the Burrow, and of the letters drawn painstakingly onto all twenty of the birthday cakes her mum had-

_No._ Ginny shook herself, tearing her eyes away from the door. She remembered this feeling down here; how easy it was to fall prey to mystery.

She forced herself to keep walking.

She walked until she was sure she was in the middle of the room, by the few faint outlines of wall that she could see. She turned around, shining her wand as high as she could, trying to make out how far she had come-

"-Oooph!" said a voice, as she crashed forcefully into someone else. She let out something embarrassingly like a scream, though thankfully softer, waving the light of her wand wildly.

"_Oh_- God- _Dennis_," she gripped his shoulder, breathing rapidly, "bloody, buggering hell- you nearly made my heart stop."

Dennis was silent in response, and Ginny realized his wand was also illuminated, though she was not sure how she could have possibly not seen it before. She followed its light.

They were standing under an arch. Well, _almost_ under an arch. Directly under the arch was a pit of something that smelled… earthy. And they stood just where it ended, toes touching the edge.

"Don't!" Ginny yelled, grabbing Dennis just in time as he made to take a step forward. He turned to look at her, face still full of that mad determination, annoyed at her interference. Ginny's fear and unease were quickly boiling into anger. That was _it_. Dennis had been her close friend since the end of the war, but he was being a bloody _idiot_, and she was finished humoring him. "We're leaving, Dennis," she said firmly, tightening her hold on him.

"No!" He shouted, eyes flashing with a fire she had never before seen in either of the Creeveys. He yanked his hand away from her, and pointed frantically at the archway. "Ginny, _don't you see?_ It's the _sands of time_."

In spite of herself, Ginny's head snapped back in the direction of the arch. Yes… of course, it was _sand_ that rested in pillowy mounds beneath the cracked and regal stone. She peered more closely at the arch itself. It looked _ancient_. She could not quite work out _how_ it looked so ancient- old stone was old stone- but something about it made her feel as though she was looking at something that had been carved into existence before the very dawn of man. Perhaps it was a _feeling_, she thought. As her eyes travelled over the rivets and spidery cracks in the archway, her heart could _feel_ a tangible sense of time, as she had never experienced it before.

There was an inscription on the arch, too. In what looked like Latin, although it felt like it had to be older. _Consuls-Quo-Aptus-Subconscientia_. Ginny found herself reading this too, again and again, until she felt hands guiding her shoulders.

"Stand here," breathed Dennis. Ginny's heart lurched, and she looked reproachfully at him as she almost lost her balance, but he held her steady as he guided her into place, directly in front of the arch. She looked up, and gasped.

From here, this perfect vantage point into the sands of time, everything had changed.

A strange light lit the arch and the sands below; like the light of the sun, only older, and darker. The view through the archway extended like a vast tunnel- and it was _endless_. Literally, endless. In the same way that the arch itself _felt_ as ancient as the Earth, Ginny's field of vision seemed to stretch as widely as the universe itself- past all possible comprehension. The sand was only physically visible for what looked like _miles_, but gazing upon it, Ginny _felt_ the crushing vastness of eternity staring back at her.

She gasped again, and felt herself wobble unsteadily.

"I have to go get him." Dennis' voice came from a distance. Ginny managed to pull her attention away from the sands, and back to him, feeling as though she were moving through honey.

"_What_?!" she choked, her heart pounding from the splendor she had just experienced. Dennis looked at her seriously, and his eyes were more still than they had been all night.

"Colin. I have to go and find him. Bring him back."

Ginny stared.

"Dennis," she started gently, casting wildly about in her mind for words sane enough to talk him down, "you- _can't_… It's not possible."

He set his jaw stubbornly, looking like he was fighting tears, and Ginny felt her breath catch in her throat.

"Dennis," she said again, gripping his arms and feeling their bony fragility under her fingers, "I'm so sorry. I know how much you miss him… Believe me- if I could bring Fred back somehow, I would do it in a _heartbeat_," she searched his eyes beseechingly. "But it's just not possible... Dennis?"

He was thrashing out of her grip, brandishing the messily scribbled-on parchment at her. It was worn from being folded and crumpled, unfolded and un-crumpled, so many times. It shook in his hand, and she could see a blurry rough diagram of the round room of doors, as well as several lines of names and dates. The heavily underlined name, '_Theadora Fugit'_, seemed to glare back at her.

"IT IS POSSIBLE!" he roared, crazed anger contorting his face. "I HAVE PROOF!"

He waved the parchment even more vigorously, advancing on her furiously. Spooked and taken aback, Ginny stumbled backwards; away from him.

And her right foot sunk into something soft.

Everything shifted. The moment her foot touched the sand, the sound of Colin's voice disappeared with a backwards '_whoosh!_'. Ginny watched dazedly, as the light from that strange and distant sun cast its glow over his face and the rest of the room; like stage lights suddenly being turned up on the audience. Her right foot had landed _on_ the sand, but had then continued to fall through it's pooling grains. Although that should have been enough to steady her, she realized with a stab of panic that she was pitching backwards, her left foot coming to rest in the sand as well; arms wide as if searching for balance, her hair fanning out on either side of her head.

Slowly, slowly, she was falling.

Colin's face had turned as though in a series of still-frames, from angry, to shocked, to horrified. He was reaching out to her, but she knew she was out of reach. Terror and warmth flooded her chest slowly like a gradual leak.

Across the room, she could see a stone dais, and a fluttering, tattered veil.

And she knew that she was falling, slowly, slowly, into the unknown, as Sirius Black had done, six years ago.


	2. Water

**1. Water**

* * *

It was like nothing she had ever experienced: being trapped in the sands of time itself.

When she recalled the… few minutes? several hours? days? weeks? … later on, the only thing she could possibly begin to compare the ordeal to, was a fever dream.

Times a thousand.

The meanest fit of fever would not begin to come close to _this_.

Later, if she remembered very carefully, which she did not like to do as the memory itself came with a fear and a dread so bone-deep she felt like she could pass out, she could remember the most curious mix of sensations. Her body had been at once _locked_ into a fierce paralysis, stiff as a board and aching as though she were sunburned all over and still lying out. But she could also recall a sensation of endless _melting_. And not pooling into a body of dripping liquid- she had been sure she was melting into _sand. _She had felt tiny pieces of herself slowly dissolving, as painfully supine as watching the most lethargic of hour-glasses. And she had known that she would have to wait. Until every piece of her had fallen away in increments nearly too small to see.

That had been the worst part; the utter overwhelm she had felt, contemplating the vastness of that wait.

Like a fever dream, she could feel her senses blending into things she could never describe. She had seen time and the world as though through the wrong end of a telescope, and had felt herself shrink until it all seemed so scarily enormous, that all she could do was check out and... _exist_ until it was over. And like a fever dream, it had gradually broken.

After god-knows how long, the barrage of images, senses, and emotions past her comprehension had begun to simplify... and her brain had slowly been able to make sense of them once more.

She pinned down the feeling of dread to the image of that lonely stone dais, the last she had seen, and she thought of the death of Sirius Black.

She pinned down the feeling of sadness to an image of Harry, and the thought that she never had, after the war ended, told him how she still felt. She felt certain that she had missed her chance now. She would not be going back.

She pinned down the feeling of great _love_, to images of her parents, brothers, extended Order Family, and that cherry-wood door in the Department of Mysteries.

The first thing she could clearly remember, was the feeling of incredible thirst.

She became aware of her body again, human and whole, and felt the dry sandiness of her mouth. She felt the burning of her skin, and the dull fire in her insides. Dimly, she knew that she needed something. Her entire body was longing for something cool and quenching.

_Water_.

The thought blossomed in the forefront of her mind, shoving out the clutter of panic in it's beautiful wet wake.

And when the longing was powerful enough, she felt a sudden release- as though the dense sand she was packed into had turned suddenly into liquid, and she had relaxed and fallen through. The feeling of falling, while dimly panicking, had been exhilarating. Wind rushed past her burned skin, and the freedom she had longed for made her heart sing with relief.

Whether or not she had actually _landed_, or if she had just appeared, she was still unsure. She thought she must have blacked out though, because when she came to, she was back in the world.

Waking as if from sleep.

* * *

Ginny gradually became conscious that she was existing somewhere other than inside the sands.

Her body ached more specifically than it had done before; a sharp pain stung her elbow and the back of her head, and her lower back throbbed continuously. The fire that she had felt on her skin was being soothed by something cool and wet, and when her lips parted, cold droplets pierced her mouth as well. She opened her mouth wider, and welcomed the water that poured inside.

She stayed where she was, focusing on breathing and staying conscious, until she began to shiver. There was a great rumble overhead, and her eyes flew open as her heart leapt in fright. Assaulted by the rain, her eyes automatically closed again, and she rolled over onto her side. Moaning with the effort, she realized how raw her throat was, and coughed to try and clear away some of the stinging particles of sand.

Managing to get to her hands and knees, Ginny had to take a moment to catch her breath. Every movement of her muscles was exhausting- as though she had forgotten how to exist within gravity.

It was pouring. She identified the cold discomfort around her waist as her blouse clinging to her skin- soaked through with rain. Her hair hung in sopping clumps around her face, dripping into an oily puddle in front of her as she prepared herself to get up. After several tries, and with shaking legs, she finally got to her feet.

The world seemed to swim before her eyes, even more visually confusing due to the thick sheet of rain that separated her from her surroundings. It was nighttime. She was on an abandoned cobblestone street, in an alleyway between two cracked and crumbling buildings. A streetlight down the narrow corridor shone light on a few distant shopfronts; one boarded, the others dusty inside and seldom visited.

She staggered to the side of the closest building, gripping the gritty stone to keep her balance as her head spun with the effort of turning it to look around. She swallowed hard, feeling needles of panic tingling in her gut, and forced herself to not be afraid. She had just survived something monumental. She could feel that in the throbbing of her newly beating heart; the ache deep inside her bones. She could figure this out. This was a world she knew.

With a surge of relief, she remembered she possessed a wand, and pulled it sluggishly out of the waistband of her jeans. Deciding her best hope was probably to follow the streetlights to a more populated area, she took an unsteady step forward, and her foot plunged into a puddle. Her vulnerable heart recoiled, remembering in a nasty flash the sensation of sinking through sand, and her breath hitched at the sharp coldness that crept into her socks. She stumbled, still clutching the building.

Voices were approaching, and she looked dazedly around. Shouts, angry shouts, were coming from the street down the alleyway. She could only clutch the building and watch, wide-eyed, as a figure bolted past, under the streetlamp. It was a man, she thought, and he looked hastily over his shoulder as he sprinted, pointing something over his shoulder with a shout.

_Magic_! She thought dimly, with a leap of her heart. The turquoise flash of light that had illuminated the street behind him, was magic, it had to be. She _was_ back in her world again, then. Wobbling and pitching, she made for the alleyway, attempting to call out, but only producing a rasp. With a din of cursing and bellowing, another figure shot past the gap after the first. And then another, and then two, three, four, _five_ more. A rainbow of lights flashed over the buildings in the street beyond her field of vision, and she stopped abruptly, swaying and throwing a hand out to steady herself.

Those were, she realized stupidly, the unmistakable sounds of dueling. Leaning against the wall again, she swallowed the nausea that was churning dully in her stomach from standing for too long, and contemplated what to do.

_Where was she?_

If she was anywhere in Wizarding England, it may be safe to approach the fighting wizards. The Death Eaters had been so diminished in numbers since the war, that she felt sure that in any dueling group like that, the majority would surely be Aurors. Perhaps they would be able to take her home? Find out what had happened to her to make her brain move so slowly, so _backwards_. Take her to St. Mungo's perhaps.

The sounds of the voices had echoed and drifted down what sounded like a block to her left. She stared wistfully after them, realizing that she would never be able to catch up.

_Apparition. _Would she be able to manage without splinching herself? She would have to try. The cold and the task of standing was making her feel dangerously close to passing out, and while odds were the duelers _were_ mostly Aurors… letting herself go unconscious in the middle of this dark abandoned alleyway was _not_ something she was about to do. She would have to risk it and try to apparate. Witches and Wizards could accomplish impossible feats in emergency situations, which this certainly was.

She closed her eyes, tried to shut out the sound of thunder, and breathed deeply to ground herself before trying. The Burrow, The Burrow, The Burrow…. She focused her woozy mind as entirely as she could upon the image of her home, and stepped forward.

Rough hands closed around her wrists, and a deep male voice barked,

"Not so fast, you slimy little bitch."

Ginny's stupid, damned, stupefied senses were working too slowly to react. A wave of adrenaline jolted through her body, but instead of rousing her, it merely made her blindly dizzy for a moment. She closed her eyes to keep from retching, as the hands yanked and jerked at her in a scrabbling, one sided fight. She tried feebly to pull away, but the grip now bruising her arms was a hundred times stronger than she was at the moment. Her back slammed into the cracked and uneven wall behind her, her head quickly following.

She groaned, as the tender and already aching spot on the back of her skull was smashed into the bricks, sending a wave of sickening pain through her head.

"Get _off_!" she managed to gasp, shoving out at the body that was closing in on her. In a swift motion, he pinned both of her hands to her chest with one of his. A wand tip jabbed against her throat, hot and practically crackling with recent use.

"Shut _up_," he growled, breathing heavily. There was a pause, and she was dimly aware of the orange glow of the streetlamp falling over her face, as he tilted her head with a massive hand to look at her in the light. The grip on her wrists faltered,

"You're not Bellatrix."

_Bellatrix_? The name echoed through her aching mind. _Lestrange_?

"Wh-what?" Ginny rasped. She opened her eyes to try and see who her attacker was. The timbre of his voice was distantly familiar.

"_Who are you_?" The momentary hesitation in his tone was gone_, _replaced by suspicious urgency. He was backlit and all she could make out was his hooded silhouette.

"Ginny-"

With a burst of strength, she tried to yank her arms out of his grasp. The wand was pressed into her throat again, this time with darker intention.

"What are you doing here? Are you working with them- did they send you ahead to wait? -to trap us?"

Ginny cried out in indignant protest as he pushed a swift shoulder into her chest, crushing her right arm at an awkward angle against her body, and grinding her back into the wall. He forced her left arm out, ripping her sleeve in his haste to get it up over her elbow, and pulling her forearm into the glow of the lamp behind him. Her milky skin looked ghostly in the eerie light, her freckles pale in the winter.

He dropped her arm. It fell to her side with a heavy flop. Stepping back, his arm fully outstretched to keep his wand to her neck, the man looked hastily over his shoulder as distant footsteps pounded their way towards them. Ginny, who had stumbled as he suddenly stopped bracing her up, gripped the wall behind her, feeling her fingernails scrape the rough brick.

"_Who_ are-"

He was cut off by a flash of green light. He jumped as the spell shot past his head to smash into the wall directly beside Ginny, and sparks shot from his wand in shock, burning the tender skin at her collarbone. Clutching her neck with one hand, Ginny unbalanced, and fell to her knees as a flash of red light cracked the bricks where she had been standing a millisecond before.

She knew a brief time of pure sensory understanding, as her brain collapsed into exhaustion and all but failed to process her surroundings. Her neck seared and burned, at once pierced and soothed by the cool rain that seemed to be falling harder than ever. Streaks of red and green light burst rapidly from all sides, as more and more figures joined the fight. Every spell illuminated the rain and the black, dueling shapes, like a dark torrential dance, and she watched, transfixed.

One of the shapes was struck, their body illuminated for a split second, by blazing red light. Ginny watched them crumple oddly gracefully to the ground; a careening pirouette. Another figure was struck. A spell soared past her ear, hot and windy, and she crawled a few feet away from the smoking residue where it hit the bricks behind her. The motion seemed to draw attention to her for the first time and she was aware of a great rush towards her, before a big black shape of a man leapt in front of her, shooting spells with so much vigor, she could practically sense his glee. Purple light ripped through his leg, and with a shout, he crumpled.

More figures were coming, shouting official warnings, and brandishing maroon light. The group in front of her was dispersing; disappearing into thin air.

Ginny felt herself loosing consciousness and leaned back against the wall, turning her face towards the rain. She blinked blearily, each pause of blackness lasting longer than the last. She saw a hooded figure dashing towards the man on the ground in front of her. Maroon lights from the newly arrived wizards were flying thick and fast. The mobile man grabbed his fellow from the watery cobblestones, hauling him to his feet. Ginny blinked. When her eyes finally reopened, she saw the man lurching forward towards her. His injured companion was clutched limply in one white-knuckled hand, and the other hand was reaching, reaching for her.

Her eyes closed again, and she felt the squeeze of apparition take her.

Breath forced from her lungs, Ginny blacked out at last.


	3. Firewhiskey

**2. Firewhiskey**

* * *

Ginny awoke slowly and peacefully with the touch of the breeze on her cheek, and a sweetness in her chest.

She had been dreaming of her mother, though when she tried to recall the dream, it pooled away from her like sand through her fingers.

Tendrils of trepidation filled her heart at this thought, and at the feel of the sun on her face. _Where was she?_

For a dread-filled moment she could feel the softness of sand beneath the curve of her back, and pried her eyes open.

She let out a slow breath as her vision focused gradually, and the most welcome sight of bright green leaves greeted her. _Where _she was, she did not know, but she was not in the sands. Her breathing deepened, and the sweetness in her chest persisted. She blinked lazily, feeling the tantalizing pull of sleep tugging at her body once more.

_-No_.

In a rush, choppy memories of the rain-drenched fight surged over her like waves battering an exhausted rubber dingy. She felt dizzy. She had been _taken_- by _who_?

She sat up, heart pounding, and looked around.

She was in a bed. Well, a cot really, but one that had been obviously enhanced by magic to look and feel like a real, down-feathered bed. Above and around her were the airy walls and ceiling of a canvas tent. Two of the flaps had been pulled all the way open, letting in what looked like early-afternoon sunlight. Through the gaps she could see a stunning view of sloping fields covered with rugged oak trees, their gnarled branches budding with fresh leaves.

Birds sang happily in the distance. Ginny blinked. _What?_

Her mind felt stupid and blank as she tried and failed to remember _how _she had gotten here… where _here_ was. She remembered the sands, and she distantly remembered the rain... and the fighting, but that was all. Perhaps her memory had been modified? She gave herself the benefit of the doubt and stopped trying to recall memories that obviously weren't there. There was plenty to sort out in the _present_ moment.

Gingerly, she sat up, her vision blurring mildly as blood rushed to her head. She blinked again, and slid her legs out from between the soft sheets, testing the ground. Her bare feet were met by grassy earth, and she felt a relieved sort of pleasure as she took a few steps away from the bed. Her legs felt like they hadn't been used in weeks, but she was _okay_. She looked down at herself, taking in the scrapes on her knees and elbows, and the bruises around her wrists. She was wearing a light cotton dress, more of a slip than anything, that was certainly not her own. She frowned in confusion, trying again to remember..._something_, but hitting that blank stone wall once more.

She walked to one of the open flaps, and gazed out at her surroundings. Sharp rays of sunlight penetrated her sore eyes and she had to squint to make out what she thought were human-like figures in the distance, but realized after a moment were only oak trees. Trees and grass as far as the eye could see— not a trace of civilization. _But surely there had to be someone else here_?

She turned back to the tent, scanning slowly over the small pile of books stacked next to the armchair beside the bed. There was a wardrobe in the far corner, two of its drawers slightly open, and what looked like a potions kit on a small table in the middle of the space. There was a slender stick in the midst of the potions ingredients that she realized with disbelief and amazement was her own _wand_. She made instantly for it, crossing the room a little faster than her legs were perhaps ready for. Gripping the table for balance, she inspected her wand closely. It seemed in perfect condition, though smeared with what smelled like Elderberry, and she remembered Harry telling her once, that in a pinch you could use basic potions ingredients to test objects for signs of dark use. Wiping it with a questionable handkerchief that she spotted poking out of the potions kit, Ginny stowed her wand in the waistband of her underwear, and listened for the sound of movement around her. There was nothing but the echoing chirps of birds.

There was an opening in one of the lowered flaps across the room that looked almost like a door, and she moved tentatively towards it. She had _no_ idea who had captured her, and while this place certainly didn't _feel_ dark or dangerous, she still wasn't sure if she wanted to meet the owners of this tent. It had every marking of a fugitive's dwelling.

Feeling, however, that she would much rather _seek out_ any possible threat, rather than wait meekly here for it to find _her_, she walked slowly towards the door flap and peered through it. It lead to a hallway of sorts, and she slid inside, her stomach slipping a bit with equal parts excitement and trepidation. Two more door flaps lined the walls of this hallway, and one faced her at the opposite end. Ginny raised her eyebrows, impressed— she remembered camping with her family when she was little, and at the Quiddich World Cup, and she had never seen a dwelling quite like this. It was like a _house_.

She poked her head into the first flap— a bathroom. The second, a small kitchen. Feeling rather like a wide-eyed child, and wondering once again exactly _what_ had happened to her in the sands, she walked towards the flap at the opposite end of the hallway. She held it open and stood paralyzed for a moment in the canvas threshold, assaulted by sunlight.

"Merlin's left dingleberry— it's an _angel_!"

Ginny jumped with nasty surprise as a boisterous voice greeted her through the blinding white light of sun. She ducked a few feet sideways, so the damned ball of fire was once again hidden behind the thick canvas of the tent, and blinked sunspots out of her eyes as she looked around for the source of the voice.

"Ta, darling," it spoke again, smooth and low, and she let her eyes fall towards it, onto a bed much like the one she had just awoken in— only bigger and more stately. A large but young man, perhaps only a couple years older than her, was reclined in it, in an alarming state of undress. Ginny's eyes widened as she tried not to look at his bare midriff and chest, rising like a statue out of the crisp white linens. He chuckled all too knowingly at her reaction and his eyes slid out of focus a little as he looked her up and down. A half-full bottle of firewhisky dangled haphazardly from his left hand. He raised his eyebrows at her and made a smug sound— of approval or disapproval she was not sure—before letting his head fall back with a soft 'thunk' against the mahogany headboard. "Security's a bit lax around here at the moment… you were supposed to have a fearsome guard on you, being our prisoner and all, but since you _have_ escaped…"

He turned wicked eyes on her and she could hear the laugh stifled in his throat, "How 'bout you come over here, and give me a hand with these bandages. 'Don't seem to want to stay fresh." He glanced with mild irritation at his right hip, and Ginny saw with a wave of mingled alarm and disgust, that the sheets beneath him were stained with a growing blotch of deep red. He looked back up at her and sighed with a shrug as if to say, 'don't you hate when this happens…?' and took a swig of firewhisky, gazing out beyond the open flap of the tent as if bored. Ginny, who was not so accustomed to trivial matters like _oozing_ _blood_ as_ he_ seemed to be, moved forward at once to help, the question of '_who the hell are you?_' dying in her throat.

Upon closer inspection, he was definitely the worse for wear. His hair was dark and shaggy, and was crusted together in spots with what shone sickeningly in the sunlight like dried blood. His hands, as well as his forearms, were muddy and scraped raw, and a long scar ran diagonally across his body; a thickly-braided ridge of white skin running from right collarbone to left hipbone. The smell of firewhisky rose off him in waves, and he grinned sloppily at her proximity as she stood over him. Ginny gave him a look of disgust, hoping to stamp the impure glint out of his eyes, and lifted the bandage gently. A deep cut just over the curve of his haunches was steadily leaking blood, which ran down his hip and into the depths of the sheets. She shook her head as it was clouded with an uncharacteristic squeamishness at the sight, as well as embarrassment at the realization that he was completely _naked_ under the sheet.

"I—what—," she began, starting to feel woozy from the effort of standing, and completely at a loss for how to understand _what the hell was going on_, "what _happened_? Where _are _we— _who_ are you?—" she could feel her temper starting to rise and almost, _almost_ felt like a distant version of herself again.

The young man let out a hearty chuckle, and she was hit in the face with a warm gust of firewhisky fumes. She glared at him as her stomach turned, wishing she wasn't quite _so_ weakened in _every_ way right now. She pressed her fingers briefly against her eyelids, taking advantage of her clammy hands to cool her burning head, and without any warning whatsoever, large hands glided up her legs to rest on her hips. Before she could even react, the hands pulled her in a swift motion right up against the frame of the bed, and she yelped, smacking at them furiously.

"_Easy_, love, you just look a bit unsteady," said the man with a raised eyebrow, though the mad and merry glint in his eyes persisted.

"That's bloody-fucking right, I _am_!" snapped Ginny, trying to pry his hands off of her, and feeling her frustration double because she _couldn't_, and she could tell that his grip was rather soft. She was _too damned weak and un-sturdy_ to take charge and figure out what was going on, and she didn't like it one bit. "I've _no_ bloody clue where I fucking am, I'm your _prisoner_, apparently, and _you_, sir are obviously mentally unsound, _and_ _drunk_, and bleeding all over the place like it's as natural as taking a piss, in the middle of a bleeding tent _mansion_ in the middle of nowhere, and I— I—"

She stopped suddenly, hearing the pitch of her own voice drawing dangerously close to tears. He could obviously hear it too, because he let silence fill the air for a moment as he appraised her face warily. Breathing heavily, she smoothed her hair behind her ears and managed to keep her eyes dry, though her cheeks were burning and the lump in her throat wouldn't die. When she didn't burst into tears like she wanted to, he laughed a boom of a laugh and cursed.

"Bugger, I love redheads."

Ginny felt the fury in her chest rise up all over again, and felt the flush in her face deepen. The hands on her hips were in motion now, one thumb smoothing slow circles around one of her hipbones, while the other hand kneaded the tender spot where her back and backside met. Ginny felt her eyes widen again as she froze in disbelief at the utter inappropriateness of this madman.

"_What_ are you—," she began but he cut her off with a pointed squeeze.

"You know," he said in a low voice, with a sharp look at her, as if he were about to bestow something very, very wise indeed upon her. She highly doubted that was going to be the case, "my dear, you seem _rather _worked up. And it _just so happens_," the insinuating look in his eyes magnified, and that buggering light started dancing around its edges again. Ginny decided that this man was, without a doubt, mentally de-railed, and began to inch her right hand towards her wand, "that I have been cited as something of an expert in… calming excitable witches such as yourself down. My own special remedy," he couldn't suppress a mirthful grin at himself as he lowered his voice to a stage-whisper, "and it's _not firewhiskey…" _

He started to slide a hand softly up her waist and Ginny smacked him hard across the face, all thoughts of her wand forgotten.

His head snapped to the side, as she had always seen in plays and her dad's movies, and her eyes widened once again at the bizarre, surreal nature of this situation she was in. The man winced momentarily, and then laughed that booming laugh again, rubbing his face and letting his head fall back onto the headboard, eyes more alight than ever and looking most content. Rage boiled through Ginny like lava. She remembered her wand and went to reach for it, but with reflexes that surprised her, considering his current state, her bedridden captor grabbed her wrist as though he were snatching a fly from the air. He fixed her with the first serious expression she had seen from him yet.

"Ah, ah, ah" he chided softly, "you may be pretty, lass, but you are still our detainee and _we_ do not know who _you_ are either. Don't even think about reaching for your wand, or I will curse you into oblivion."

A slight shock of fear passed through her chest as Ginny realized several things at once. His grip on her wrist was tight, but not tight enough to cause the dull pain she was now experiencing, and she had a sudden memory of the same wrist being grabbed to the point of bruising— as she was shoved against a ragged wall in the pouring rain. This, coupled with the sudden serious tone of his voice made her realize with a thrill of unease, that _this_, this ridiculous, mad, twinkle-eyed young man, was the same brute who had come across her when she first came-to in the rain. He had been close to attacking her— had seemed ready to kill, and the suddenly stony temperament in his grey eyes made her feel certain that he would have _no_ qualms or hesitations about _actually_ cursing her into oblivion— if she _were _to reach for her wand.

He was watching her steadily, though his eyes looked a touch glazed, and seemed to register the exact moment that it sunk in for her that he meant business. She looked up at him cautiously and in a flash, he had released her wrist- the happy gleam back in his eyes. He folded his arms behind his head, still bleeding softly onto the white sheets beneath him, and watched her curiously.

"Who are you," Ginny asked again, this time with a quiet calm she felt proud of. She wondered, for the first time, if perhaps she wasn't just having a queer and vivid _dream. _The man chuckled and seemed to deliberate for a moment.

"Oh, Moo-oony," he half-called, half sang, over his shoulder through the tent flap. Coincidentally or not, Ginny couldn't tell, ten seconds later the flap opened, and a brown-haired young man ducked inside, with an armful of leaves and flowers . "Our prisoner-maiden is up." The first man gestured to Ginny with that _laugh_ in his eyes, "_Commendable_ job keeping a watch over her, I must say. Iron-hold you have there, my boy."

The brown-haired boy looked pityingly at his bed-ridden companion, and then turned wary eyes on Ginny. She was forcefully reminded of someone familiar, but couldn't think of who, as her mind jumped instead to the question of whether or not she should prepare to defend herself. Pressing his lips together thoughtfully, Brown-Hair drew his wand, and took a calm step closer to her. She would have reacted defensively, only he kept his wand held loosely at his side- instead of aimed at her.

The moment seemed to stretch on forever.

In one beat, she looked quickly from his wand, to his face.

They stared at each other.

In another beat, their eyes met, locked in a mutual determination to size each other up.

They stared at each other.

In a beat that blew away the fragile sense of time that Ginny had come to know again, he furrowed his brow thoughtfully, and realization slapped her in the face. She knew that look.

She stared at him.

She knew those gold-flecked irises. She knew that focused, mild, expression. She knew that chin, she knew that nose, she knew that tufted, sandy-brown hair.

She knew the shadows under those eyes.

She stared at him.

'_Moony_'? Is that what the young man in the bed had called him? She hadn't taken it in before, distracted by the man himself; his complete change in nature, his out-of-the-blue advances on her. But now she was _sure_ she could hear it echoing in a more observant vault of her mind. '_Moony…_'

She stared at him.

_Lupin_. She was at once convinced, and in utter disbelief. Her rational mind knew that it could not, of course, be Remus Lupin- much older, and well, _dead_. Of course it could not. But her heart knew that _somehow_, impossibly, unbe_lievably_- it was. She could see it clearly in the studious line of his mouth, the slight, endearing twitch of expression in his eyebrows as he looked curiously at her. She could feel it in his presence; the way he moved and the warmth he brought to what should be a hostile encounter.

Her eyes darted to the man in the bed. But then-

-_Sirius_.

She blinked a few times. Of course. The dark mass of hair, the sharp cheekbones, the _voice_. Yes… she could see in this boy, the framework for the Sirius Black she had known. It was not nearly as clear in his case as it was in Remus', however. The eyes were _not_ the same; they were merry and full of light, not sunken with permanent regret. Nor was his mouth, which seemed to rest in a natural, humorous smile; not a wary line of concern and frustration. He did not feel quite the same either.

He seemed so young, so free, so pure- this boy.

Fleetingly, Ginny recalled the past ten minutes. Perhaps _pure_ was not quite the right choice. But he crackled with that lively, unstoppable energy of youth.

"Alright?" the Brown-Haired boy- _Remus?_- was saying. Ginny realized that she was backing slowly away from them, mouth open in utter shock. The backs of her thighs met the top of a chair, and she stumbled, catching herself on a desk with one outstretched hand.

"I-" Ginny closed her eyes, bringing a hand to her face. _How could this be?_

She pressed her cool and clammy fingers into her burning forehead, "-I- _yes_," she managed to choke, "just rather dizzy all of a sudden."

"May I suggest," came the now unmistakable voice of _Sirius Black_, "some Firewhiskey?"

* * *

**R-E-V-I-E-W-!**

**And this is just fun, so no flames.**

**xx**


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